


Apollo in Lace

by downtheroadandupthehill



Series: getting fucked in lingerie [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Enjolras wears lingerie, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, subjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 02:51:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/pseuds/downtheroadandupthehill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He sighs, expects he’s going to be sent on an errand for a different size or color, but strolls to the back, anyway. The line of dressing room doors all hang open—it’s a Monday afternoon, not exactly prime shopping time, which is why Enjolras had wanted to go now—save for the one on the end, bolted shut. Grantaire knocks on the hot pink door.</p>
<p>When Enjolras opens it, he nearly faints.</p>
<p>Black lace, and not much of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apollo in Lace

They’re here for something specific, but Grantaire has already managed to get distracted.

“Come feel these pjs,” he practically croons into some black and white polka-dotted pants. “They’re so  _soft._ ”

“We’re not here for pajamas,” Enjolras says, and his tone is clipped and cold. He’s only just learning to be less ashamed of what Grantaire refers to as “his very sexy kinks,” but coming together as a couple to Victoria’s Secret for lingerie is something else entirely. His cheeks have been pinker than the gaudy carpet ever since they walked in, but at least the saleswomen are polite, and only one of them gave him a knowing smile.

(There had been quite an argument over the choice of store. Grantaire had teased him about how obnoxiously  _corporate_  it is, and the company’s disgusting objectification of women. Enjolras had flushed red and lost all of his typical eloquence, tripping over his tongue while insisting it was the only place in their shitty college town to buy any of the sort of garments he’s looking for.)

“If you’re buying frilly underwear, I think I’m allowed to wear some satin jammies to bed,” Grantaire pouts.

“If you’re happy shopping for pajamas, then fine. But I’m going to be over here deciding what frilly underwear I’ll look best in.”

Grantaire looks up from the pajama set, and his eyes dart over to his boyfriend. He licks his lips, and Enjolras can tell by the way his eyes glaze over that Grantaire is already imagining it. The  _satin jammies_  are promptly forgotten, and Enjolras watches Grantaire’s breath quicken, just the slightest, indicated by the rise and fall of his chest. At his sides, Grantaire’s fingers flex, as if he’d like to curl them into Enjolras’s hair or through his beltloops and drag their bodies together.

He pretends not to notice, and turns to search a rack of lacy tops with matching bottoms.

Grantaire is still staring at him, a wolfish smile spreading across his face.

So it’s really no surprise when they end up wedged into the tiny dressing room together.

…..

To be honest, Grantaire pays very little attention to the skimpy underthings that Enjolras is rooting through. He’s too focused on the warmth of his boyfriend’s lower back beneath his palm, sliding it up and underneath his cotton t-shirt to graze skin against skin, as he lingers behind him and pretends to take an interest. But he knows he’ll like whatever Enjolras picks out.

He leans in to nuzzle at the side of Enjolras’s neck, until nuzzling turns into tiny kisses that might be chaste if he were thinking about anything besides Enjolras and thong shopping. But here they are, thong shopping, and Grantaire’s kisses most certainly are not chaste. His tongue swipes at the spot behind his ear that he knows Enjolras likes best. But Enjolras continues to act unaffected, inspecting sizes and prices on plastic tags.

“You’re no fun,” Grantaire whines into his ear, and Enjolras only shrugs in response.

“I think I’m going to go and try these on,” Enjolras says, completely casual, and tucks a few bit of clothing under his arm. “You may resume your pajama shopping.” He heads to the back of the store, where the dressing rooms are located in a separate hallway.

Grantaire frowns, but he goes back to the silky, soft pajamas and ruffles through them with what is now disinterest. “Sixty dollars for pjs. You’ve got to be kidding me,” he grumbles under his breath.

(When Grantaire is sexually frustrated, he somehow adopts the behavior of a cranky old man—or at least that’s what Courfeyrac tells him.

In this sort of mood, it’s also probably for the best that he didn’t see the price tags on what Enjolras is trying on.)

In his jeans pocket, Grantaire feels his phone vibrate. He reaches for it, clicks on the screen.

**E: Come back here for a sec.**

He sighs, expects he’s going to be sent on an errand for a different size or color, but strolls to the back, anyway. The line of dressing room doors all hang open—it’s a Monday afternoon, not exactly prime shopping time, which is why Enjolras had wanted to go now—save for the one on the end, bolted shut. Grantaire knocks on the hot pink door.

When Enjolras opens it, he nearly faints.

Black lace, and not much of it. Triangles of fabric loose against his chest—Grantaire gets a tantalizing glimpse of his nipple, pink and pert and he’s aching to swirl his tongue around it. The top opens in the middle at Enjolras’s stomach, and the familiar flat plane of it looks hotter than ever, Grantaire thinks, framed in translucent black lace. A line of tantalizing blond hair trails downward—

The thong—because of course it has to be a  _fucking thong_ —has a bow of black ribbon at the front, with strings along his hips to hold it up. And  _Christ_ , it’s so small and tight and Grantaire can’t stop staring at Enjolras straining against the material, because fuck Enjolras has gotten hard in the changing room of all places, because  _this_  gets him hotter than anything—

And Enjolras is just staring at him expectantly, nervously, chewing on his bottom lip like he has something to be self-conscious about, as if he’s afraid he might not be the absolute sexiest thing that Grantaire has ever seen.

So clearly, Grantaire’s best option is to  _show him_  how damn fuckable his boyfriend is like this, in this, and he takes a few steps forward to crowd him back into the dressing room, and shuts and locks the door behind them both.

“Here?” Enjolras gasps, and Grantaire has him pressed against the wall, teeth raking at his neck and collarbone, and Enjolras certainly isn’t going to protest that.

“Here.” Grantaire shifts until he’s against the one against the wall. “Now, on your knees,” he commands in a low voice, low enough to send a thrill through Enjolras and low enough to hopefully not be heard by the saleswomen outside.

Enjolras obeys, dropping to his knees (because fuck if this isn’t why he does this to begin with, to lose control and be controlled and to allow himself to be called filthy names—he doesn’t know why it gets him off so well but it does, and bless Grantaire for knowing what he needs and giving it to him so  _well_.)

He knows what Grantaire wants from him, but he doesn’t reach out for it, not yet. Instead, he tilts his head upwards to give him his best pleading look, eyes wide.

(Next time maybe he’ll do this right and bring a tube of red lipstick. It would go with the black lace, he considers, and he likes to see the smudges of scarlet left at the base of Grantaire’s cock, afterwards.)

Grantaire looks down at him and sneers, starts to rub himself through his jeans. “Do you want something?” he asks, teasing him mercilessly.

Enjolras can only manage a whimper.

“Does the whore want to suck my cock?”

At the word  _whore_ , Enjolras grows even more aware of the perfect friction his lace panties are giving him, and he rocks forward automatically.

But Grantaire is waiting for an answer.

“Please let me suck your cock,” Enjolras says, and he feels his face burning, and his gaze moves to the floor.

He hears Grantaire fumble at the button of his jeans, and then the metal zipper, and Enjolras looks up again, more hopefully.

(He prefers to be made to beg for longer, for an hour or two, even—but they’re in public and time is kind of the essence here.)

Enjolras lets his mouth hang open, wet redness enticing and tight and warm. He feels Grantaire lock his fingers of one hand into his long hair, wrapping its curls around his hand. The tugging on his hair makes him moan, and Grantaire begins to chide him:

“Ah ah ah. We’re going to have to shut you up so we don’t get caught, aren’t we?”

Gently, Grantaire drags his head forward, and he’s hot and full sliding between Enjolras’s lips, the suction inside of his cheeks. He starts to use his tongue, small licks and curls of it, until Grantaire starts to thrust shallowly into his mouth. All he can do is allow his mouth to be used, and at that thought he moans again, the sound muffled around Grantaire’s cock.

Grantaire is rough but careful with him, only just hitting the back of Enjolras’s throat. Enjolras basks in it—he’d like to be gagged and choked on it, he thinks, but there are lines that Grantaire is still unwilling to cross.

“Good slut,” Grantaire hisses as he bucks his hips. “Taking all of me. Look at yourself.”

_The mirror._

It’s a dressing room, so of course there’s a full-length mirror on one wall, which Enjolras had ignored up to this point—a little distracted with other things, perhaps. He can’t move his head but he opens his eyes looks to his left, sees himself on his knees, black lace stretched across his sides and hips and cock, while Grantaire continues to thrust into his mouth. His boyfriend grits his teeth, tries to maintain some control, but they’re both watching themselves now.

Enjolras reaches down to palm himself through the underwear, and Grantaire stops moving for a moment, and his grip in Enjolras’s hair tightens hard.

“I didn’t say you could touch yourself.”

Enjolras whines but obeys, folds his hands in front of him, leaving himself unsatisfied.

“Fuck, Enjolras.  _Fuck_.”

Grantaire’s hips begin to stutter in their rhythm. “I’m going to—”

(Grantaire is always a gentleman in this respect, even after Enjolras demands to be his little fuck toy for a while.)

Grantaire’s eyes close in bliss as he comes, while Enjolras’s eyes stay open, watching themselves in the mirror, the movement in his throat as he swallows Grantaire down. After about a minute, Grantaire slides out of his mouth, zips his jeans back up. His face and neck are shiny with a layer of sweat, and his hands are still shaking from the surge of pleasure that had wracked him.

“Change back into your clothes and buy that little outfit,” Grantaire orders, and his voice is still coarse with lust. “I might even let you come in your nice new underwear when we get home.”

Then he shoves his hands in his pockets, shifts somewhat awkwardly. “I should probably go out there now. So we don’t come out of here at the same time and make it any more painfully obvious.”

Enjolras is still on his knees at Grantaire’s feet. He still can’t speak, so he nods, nods as if he’s not  _aching_  for release.

Grantaire takes his hands, helps him stand upright. He looks uncertain, as though he’d like to ask him if he’s okay, but one look at Enjolras’s erection and he knows he’s definitely not okay in at least one respect, so Grantaire switches on a slight smirk instead, and kisses him on the cheek.

As Grantaire slips out of the dressing room, Enjolras hears him breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank God no one called security on us.”

(And when Enjolras is alone again, it’s all too tempting to take care of himself.

But he knows that if he waits, Grantaire will make it more than worth his while.)


End file.
